Road to a Darker Knight
by Jacob M. Bosch
Summary: Matt McGinnis was there that night, that night when a new Batman was born. Matt's soul was destroyed that night, and there was nothing left in its place but his desire for vengence, causing him to seek aid from one of Batman's most deadly rivals.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own Batman Beyond, I don't even own stock in Warner Brothers, or I guess The Cartoon Network now.

* * *

ROAD TO A DARKER KNIGHT

* * *

Matthew McGinnis tended to tune out doorbells. It was never anybody for him anyway. So he ignored the chime that night and kept watching the Vid. 

A few moments later his Dad rushed out of his bedroom, which doubled as an office, and scooped Matt up off the floor.

Matt thought they were playing a game when his Dad hurried him into the closet in Terry's room. Telling the boy to be very, very quiet just like that big bald-headed guy in those old cartoons, Matt laughed and promised he wouldn't make a sound.

* * *

Warren McGinnis turned off the JLU cartoon Matt had been watching and switched to the web-news before he answered the door. He didn't want Mr. Fixx to know his youngest son was in the apartment. Terry ran out earlier after another pointless argument that probably shouldn't have happened, but Warren was grateful his oldest was gone. Terry was such a hot head; he'd try to fight the man behind their front door. Warren hoped surrendering the disk would give him a way out of this situation without that kind of trouble. 

Warren opened the door and found the huge Asian man waiting in the hallway in front of the apartment. An automatic chill went through Warren as he looked up into Mr. Fixx's eyes. There had always been the threat of impending violence radiating from Power's right hand man, and his eyes expressed this the most.

But as Mr. Fixx stood there, Warren sensed no more danger from him than usual. Relaxing slightly, McGinnis invited the man inside as amicably as he could. "Please come in. What do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" Warren asked closing the front door after Fixx walked deeper into the living room.

"Oh, I think you know why I'm here, Mr. McGinnis," Fixx imputed, his voice deep and accented, his back to the other. "The disk, of course."

That admission gave Warren pause; he was surprised the man came out and revealed what he wanted so immediately.

"Please don't deny that it is in your possession."

Fixx faced Warren, his expression unchanged. As he turned, the long dark brown leather over coat he wore came apart in front; flashing a small canister of something strapped to his waist. For a moment, Warren was afraid the canister contained a sample of the DNA mutigen, and that Fixx would infect him with it. But the nerve gas was highly contagious, even momentary exposure to the biological weapon could be fatal. Fixx would have to be suicidal to use it in close quarters.

"I--" Warren began, but was silenced Fixx's fist slammed into the side of his face. His wire framed glasses shattered under the blow, along with his nose and several of his teeth. Warren hit to the floor without being aware of falling.

Warren McGinnis was an intellectual, always has been. Even growing up, Warren was never involved in a serious fight. He could recall all two fights he'd ever been in, both occurring when he was Matt's age, and they were minor skirmishes at best. He's never felt the pain a solid punch could inflict. And Mr. Fixx knew how to maximize the damage of a good punch.

Warren started to plead with the hulking man standing over him. To tell him where the disk was, but Warren's face wasn't working, paralyzed with pain and swelling. Warren couldn't even feel the enormous amount of blood oozing from his split lips and bloated nose.

"It doesn't matter if you tell me or not. We know you have seen what's on the disk. A definite no, no."

Warren tried to move away from Fixx as bits of teeth drooled out of his mouth with blood and spittle. Fix calmly followed his labored retreat. When Warren's back hit the front door Mr. Fixx was on him, he grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him to his feet.

Another punch caught McGinnis in the gut and he doubled over.

Fixx picked Warren up and tossed him over his very broad shoulder, Warren was too weak to struggle against Fixx's grasp and dangled there limply, trying to breathe. Fixx carried him into the bathroom and threw him into the bathtub. Warren's vision went hazy when the back of his skull struck the cold hard marble and he lost consciousness, he didn't know for how long, seconds maybe. When he woke up, he saw Fixx stuff his hands into the side pockets of his coat. When his hands emerged, they were fists and wrapped around the fists were a pair of Electro- Knuckles.

* * *

Matthew McGinnis squeezed his eyes shut and covered his ears. He didn't understand what was happening. The nine-year- old couldn't bear hearing the wet, cracking sounds. Or the agonized screams that followed. Why was the big man hurting his Daddy? 

He'd left the closet; he promised he wouldn't, but Matt had to help his dad. Matt watched the big man hit his dad for several horrific moments before he turned away and pressed his back against the wall beside the bathroom's doorframe. Images of his father's blood flying through the air, splashing against the walls, and onto the big man's cinnamon brown skin, were seared into his memory.

He pressed his hands harder against his ears, but he couldn't stop the sound of gurgling from penetrating. It was scarier than his dad's cries of pain, because it sounded like his dad was just gargling mouthwash. But that wasn't what was happening—mouthwash wasn't what filled his daddy's mouth.

Soon, all Matt heard was the big man's punching, and wet crunches. Warren McGinnis made no further sounds. Matt took his hands away from his ears, filled with the irrational hope that the big man had left his daddy alone and okay.

Matt peeked around the edge of the open doorway and saw the big man straighten up and pull off the blood drenched Electro-Knuckles from his equally bloody hands. Matt watched the big man turn away from the tub and nonchalantly trek over to the bathroom sink. He placed both Electro-Knuckles under the automatic sensor and a hissing spray of water flowed from the faucet, sluicing off all traces of the sanguine fluid from them.

Matt tore his gaze from the big man to look at his father. He couldn't see his daddy; all he saw was blood. He searched harder, his eyes trying to find his father in the tub. Where was he?

Then all at once the boy saw his daddy. He saw him all along, but his mind refused to acknowledge the ruined details his eyes perceived. Gore was all that was left of his father's skull.

Matt turned away from the hideous scene as his mind began to decipher the scene behind him. His daddy's scalp had been scraped from the top of his cranium, matting under his head like a fleshy halo. His daddy's eyes, nose, lips and cheeks were reduced to a mess of gelatinous goo. The ridges of his eye sockets and cheekbones were visible. White bone glistened under the lights in the bathroom.

And once the reality was seen, Matt could not un-see it, and not a single detail was omitted.

Five hours later the police would find Matt huddled in his brother's bedroom closet right where his father told him to stay earlier that night, biting his right kneecap until it bled. He wouldn't tell the police his name.

Even after his mother was called in, Matt was unresponsive to any questions put to him. The boy barely flinched when Mary McGinnis pulled him into her arms and hugged him fiercely. And Matt was long gone by the time his brother Terry made his way back home to find the police swarming in and around their apartment building.

The police suggested to Mary McGinnis that she take her youngest son to the hospital.

And in the hospital, Matthew McGinnis remained.

* * *

ONE YEAR LATER

* * *

Terry McGinnis drove to Gotham Memorial in solemn silence. Usually he listened to the CD player when he drove Mr. Wayne's black stretch, but not today. Today he was going to bring his little brother home. 

He couldn't have concentrated on much else. He didn't want to.

Matt's homecoming was both a happy and somber occasion for Terry. A year ago no one knew if Matt was ever going to emerge from the autistic state he'd descended into the night Warren McGinnis was murdered. For a year, Terry felt as though he not only lost his father, but his younger brother as well.

Terry visited Matthew in the Children's Psychiatric Ward twice a week ever since the doctors allowed Matt to have visitors, come hell or high water. He sat beside Matt's hospital bed reading to him, talking about his day at school and how Mom was doing, and all the while Matt would just lie there and stare blankly up at the ceiling. His dark eyes dull and vacant, lacking the spark of personality and unruliness that sometimes made him a pain in Terry's ass.

Then a month ago Matt started to come out of it. The changes were small at first; as simple as his eyes following Terry and Mary around the room when they visited. Then a month after that, Matt spoke his first words to his family in a year. Terry never thought he could be so happy just to hear his brother say in a dry, rattle of a voice that he was thirsty.

What made the events of the last month a maudlin one was that Matt's voice, even as it grew stronger over the next few days that followed, was devoid of emotion.

And Matt didn't smile anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own Batman Beyond, I don't even own stock in Warner Brothers, or I guess The Cartoon Network now.

* * *

ROAD TO A DARKER KNIGHT

* * *

Terry McGinnis held a plasma acetylene torch in his right hand, guiding its bright green point over the front right fin of the Bat-mobile. "I can't believe I begged the old man to do this," the twenty-one-year-old muttered to himself behind the faceplate of his helmet.

Terry moved the torch away from the Bat-mobile's new armor, straightened his back and raised the faceplate.

McGinnis carefully studied the job he'd done of replacing the armor plating. So far his work appeared seamless, but he wouldn't be able to really tell until he ran a spectral scan. Terry lowered his faceplate and re-ignited the torch and set back to his task.

_When I asked the old man if I could handle more behind the scene stuff I was thinking gadget making, not this. Bruce smiles and says, 'Sure you can', and what do I do, like anything good ever came after that smile? I grin like an idiot and ask, 'Great! When do I get started?'_

_Now look where I am: stuck doing menial maintenance work because I don't have a loyal manservant around to do it for me. Or even a little twip of a sidekick... not that I need one, no sir, 'cause this Bat works alone!_

Terry winced behind the tinted faceplate. That train of thought led him to a place he'd rather not dwell… Max.

Maxine Gibson and Terry both attended Gotham University. Max had twice Terry's course load and she still breezed through all her classes, which left her lots of free time to bug Terry about visiting the Cave again. Max was a good friend and sometimes ally—Terry lost count of how many times she'd covered for him with his Mom and Dana—but the Job was too dangerous.

Terry shook his head and refocused his attention on the hot point of the torch.

_Max'll keep. She thinks she can wear me down—hopefully it'll take a couple more years before she realizes she can't…_

"Terry," Bruce Wayne's gruff, I-gargled-with-shards-of-glass-this-morning, voice called out to him. Terry released the button on the torch and turned away from the Bat-mobile. Wayne was standing at the bottom of the long stairway.

Bruce Wayne hadn't aged much in appearance since Terry first met him five years before. Wayne's hair was snowier, but Wayne's cool blue eyes yet shone with keen intelligence, and no new lines etched their way into that distinguished face, which remained square and strong. And though he needed a walking cane to get around, the man who once held the mantle of Batman still possessed a deep strength age could not diminish entirely.

The old man was dressed for the day ahead, a black suit and tie. Wayne was reinstated as the CEO of his family's corporation three years ago and hadn't stopped moving forward since, surprising everyone but Terry with his vigor.

"What's up?" Terry asked as he raised his faceplate.

"Turn on the Net," the old man said.

Terry cut off the gas to the torch and set it down next to the Bat-Mobile. He also removed his helmet, the heat resistant smock and gloves, and set it all down with the inert torch in a pile. Terry hurried to the Bat-Computer.

A computer-generated woman with non-descript feminine features and stiffly styled hair appeared on the computer's largest monitor. Her synthesized voice sounding a little too cheery, the CG sprite was already deep into the news report. "…The GCPD has cordoned off the area in the hopes that the violent altercation between the warring factions will be limited. However, Commissioner Dern has made it clear that he will not allow the Splicer and the Enhancer street war to continue unchecked…"

"Bullwhip," Terry said.

* * *

Nineteen Karate students surrounded the large blue mat. They were dressed in identical grab: loose, lightweight uniforms commonly referred to as gi, that came in one of two non-colors, either black or white. Every student present had black belts tied around their waists.

Matthew McGinnis, wearing a solid black gi, stepped forward and joined his opponent and the referee on the mat. Matthew bowed first to the referee, then to the girl in a gi who stood to challenge him. Her name was Jillain Holliwell.

Holliwell was three inches taller than Matt's height of five-foot and three inches, but they weighed the same. She was also older than Matt by three years. A third degree black belt, Jillain Holliwell was training at the Shinjukei Dojo two years before Matt joined the school a year ago.

Holliwell didn't believe Matt deserved to be standing in front of her.

The referee stated the rules. This was a grappling match, but the rules were similar to those in a competition: no hitting below the belt—sweeping excluded—no eye gouging and no biting. Best three out of five clean hits would decide the winner.

Matt nodded, acknowledging he understood of the rules then he moved into a Shizen-tai stance. Holliwell also took a Shizen-tai stance. She looked entirely removed to Matt. Her pale face, usually strumming with tension, was utterly blank. Matt imagined his own expression mirrored the one he saw on hers.

The second the referee signaled the start of the match, Matt stepped aside as his opponent launched a front snap kick with her left leg at his mid-section. It wasn't that Matt saw the kick coming and was fast enough to avoid it, but that he knew her fighting style so well. Holliwell was primarily an offensive fighter, though not a careless one. The lunge kick was quick and would have been devastating had it connected, but it didn't cost her anything if she missed. Matt had to be on the defensive for the first few minutes of this match.

Holliwell, un-perturbed by her failed strike, kept her leg up and simply redirected the momentum of her initial kick. Transforming it into a crescent kick directed at Matt's head. Holliwell's right leg remained straight and balanced, as she displayed her extraordinary muscle control.

Matt ducked the second kick and brought his forearms over his head. He heard Holliwell let out a surprised grunt when the back of her ankle struck his arms. He effectively blocked the heel she intended to bring down on top of his skull after cutting off the crescent kick in the middle of its arch. Bending at the knees, Matt sprang upwards with all his strength to throw Holliwell off balance.

He wasn't at all amazed when she used that force to somersault away from him instead of falling to the mat. But away from him is where he wanted her to be. Her last attack left the muscles in his forearms throbbing and partially numb. Matt needed time to recover. Time he'd get; Holliwell would be more cautious now.

Matt had ten seconds to recover before she came at him again. He didn't even try to avoid Holliwell as her fists struck out at him with dizzying speed and accuracy… but no real strength. Why would there be? Holliwell's fighting strength was her legs. Matt blocked each punch with little effort; disappointed she would think he would fall for her ploy.

Her right leg came straight up between their bodies. Matt tilted his head to the side at the last second, and felt a whoosh of air cut against the left side of his face and ruffle his hair. Matt grabbed her leg, crooking his arm just below her knee then lightly punched her in the center of her chest.

"Point!"

Matt released Holliwell's leg. And Holliwell, with another display of superb muscle control, slowly took her leg away from Matt's shoulder and brought it down to the mat. She and Matt held eye contact throughout.

* * *

The match ended with Matt scoring three consecutive hits on Holliwell. Matt took the amazed stares of the other students in stride as he stepped off the mats. No one expected him to win, never mind decisively.

Holliwell was a good fighter, so their spar hadn't been a complete waste of time, but she was amateurish and sheltered. She'd never fought outside a Dojo, or the carefully structured environment of a martial arts competition where there were rules to keep her relatively safe. Matt wanted to go up against opponents who were far more calculating than the seventeen-year-old he just faced. People who didn't follow the rules in the worst way; people who wanted to kill him.

Matt sat in the plastic-folding chairs rowed against a wall where he'd left his navy blue duffel. Matt pulled out the clean white towel his mother always made sure to pack for him, and dried his face with it. After wiping down, Matt dried his hair then hooked the towel around his neck. Digging further inside the bag, he found a sports bottle filled with water. As Matt sipped from the bottle, another pair of students took to the mat and began to spar.

Brushing damp bangs away from his forehead, Matt watched the neophytes with cool interest. Ignoring how his gi clung uncomfortably to his skin. Holliwell came and sat in the chair next to him.

"Good match," she offered in the way of a greeting.

Matt turned to the older girl and saw she was staring at the students on the mat. Matt returned his own scrutiny to the match. "Yeah."

"You're better than when you first came here."

"That's the point, isn't it?"

Matt could feel her staring at him now, not quite glaring, but close to it.

"You know what I mean. No one gets that good in one year!"

Matt looked at the older girl again, his features fixed in flesh colored stone… emotionless. He understood where she was going with the conversation. She wasn't far from the truth, but Matt still resented Holliwell's accusations.

Holliwell's expression hardened in response, and so did her voice.

"You had training before you came here, didn't you?"

"And that would explain why you had your head handed to you, right?"

Holliwell stared at Matthew murderously then stood and stalked away.

Matt sighed. "And that, Matthew, is why everyone's always so ticked off at you."


End file.
